


One Man’s Trash...

by septima_sum



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, College Student Stiles, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 15:10:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4526832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/septima_sum/pseuds/septima_sum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles isn't prepared to run into his ex-boyfriend again. </p><p>Ever the good Samaritan, Peter offers to help him out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Man’s Trash...

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to try my hand at this little trope for a while.
> 
> A thousands thanks to the fantastic [Malapropian](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Malapropian/works)/[TheTrashPalace](http://thetrashpalace.tumblr.com/) for beta-reading this ficlet!

  
  


The bar is way too upscale for Stiles' liking. It's a nightmare of chrome and glass and bizarre designer furniture, and it's filled with people whose wardrobe probably costs more than Stiles' entire apartment. Why did he let Lydia talk him into this? He doubts he'll find any worthy rebounds here, and that's the official objective for the evening. Find someone that makes him forget about his douchebag of an ex-boyfriend. Which is going to be difficult, since his ex-boyfriend is an actual GQ model.

And one of the few people who ever broke Stiles' heart.

“You'll never make new experiences if you stay in your comfort zone,” Lydia had said.

“Yeah, that's the _point_ ,” Stiles had answered, but of course no mortal man could hold his ground against Lydia when she had set her mind to something, and as a result Stiles is now wearing a fancy suit that makes him feel as if he's doing a cosplay of a 'successful man that has his shit together and isn't two inches away from a mental breakdown'.

Maybe the whole experience would be tolerable if Lydia were around, but for all of her pep-talking and fashion-prepping she's noticeably absent now. Irritated, Stiles checks his phone. Still no new texts.

He wanders over to the counter, occupying one of the free bar stools. Ever since his boyfriend dumped him, Stiles' ego suffered a near fatal blow. He feels pathetic and unappealing; just a college guy who's clearly out of his depths. What the hell he's doing in this shark tank, he doesn't even know.

Well, that's not _entirely_ correct. He knows what he's doing. He's ordering a double whiskey on the rocks, that's what he's doing.

It's a step in the right direction, as it turns out. But not nearly enough of a step – what he needs is more of a hundred meter sprint in the right direction.

Because at the other end of the bar Stiles spies none other than _his ex-boyfriend_.

He finds it hard to breathe for a moment.

 _Fuck_.

To make matters worse, his ex-boyfriend looks like the dictionary definition of 'happy and relaxed,' and to make matters even worse than that, he's deeply engrossed in a conversation with a handsome guy that Stiles doesn't know. Stiles nearly reels with the force of jealously as he wonders whether that guy is one of _them_.

“Everything alright?” a voice next to Stiles asks.

Stiles turns around, startled. The guy on the next bar stool – attractive, in his forties – looks at him inquisitively, one eyebrow raised.

“No. No, no, no. Not in any manner of speaking,” Stiles mumbles, more to himself than to his neighbor.

“That doesn't sound good. What's the matter?”

Stiles sighs in a trembling exhale of air. “That guy over there is my ex. We broke up recently.”

“Ah,” the guy says, looking at his ex-boyfriend with a considering expression. “I assume he broke up with you, judging by your reaction?”

“Is it _that_ obvious?”

“No. But he looks like an obnoxious idiot who doesn't know what's good for him, so that's my second clue.”

Stiles smiles without meaning to, feeling slightly vindicated. “You know what, you've no idea how right you are.” The fleeting note of humor vanishes quickly as he realizes what a dire situation he's in. “I have the worst luck in the world. I mean... look at him. He's enjoying himself, and I'm trying to drown my heartache in second-rate whiskey while reeking of Cheetos, misery, and sleepless nights. I'm redefining 'pathetic' as we speak.” Stiles' voice wobbles at the last sentence; he risks a long, lovelorn look at his ex, who looks obscenely handsome as usual - confident and sophisticated, a ten in anyone's book. Just when Stiles has been able to convince himself that he wasn't that hot. Regular hot, yeah, sure, but not the blistering surface-of-the-sun supernova kind. Turns out, Stiles deluded himself. Big time. His sorry ass was never good enough.

The guy next to him smiles in a sympathetic fashion. “It's not that hopeless. I can help you.”

Stiles frowns. “Yeah? How exactly?”

“First of all, I'm going to order some decent whiskey for you. Alcohol should distance you from your problems, not add to them.” He gives the bartender a nod; Stiles is surprised that the bartender actually hurries over without delay. Once the mysterious whiskey has been ordered, the guy says, “ _Second_ , and this is the fun part, I could pretend to be your date.”

Stiles' mouth falls open. There's a shrewd, amused look on the guy's face, but he doesn't seem to be joking.“You'd do that? Why?”

The man shrugs, letting his eyes slowly take in Stiles' form. “It wouldn't be a hardship,” he states with obvious appreciation. “And besides, I've always been a bit of a troublemaker. I've been accused of living for mischief and mayhem on several occasions.”

Stiles shifts on his seat, fighting a grin. “Well okay. If it's for shits and giggles. It appears you're a man after my own liking.”

“Glad to hear that.” The guy drags his bar stool a bit closer to Stiles' so that they don't look like strangers accidentally sitting next to each other. Under other circumstances Stiles wouldn't appreciate having his personal space invaded like that, but the circumstances being what they are – namely heartbreak, misery, and general pitifulness (but not the cute kind) – Stiles welcomes the gesture. Plus, he's shallow as hell and the guy is wearing a low-cut designer V-neck that does nothing to hide his fit physique. Let him dream for a moment, okay.

“If we're dating, I should know your name,” the guy says.

“It's Stiles.”

“How unusual. A nickname?”

“Yeah, my real name isn't pronounceable. You wouldn't be able to wrap your mouth around those vowels, believe me.”

The guy grins. “Don't count me out so easily. I have a certain practice wrapping my mouth around hard vowels.”

Stiles nearly chokes on his drink. “Duly noted.”

“My name's Peter, by the way,” the guy says, extending his hand for Stiles to shake. He has a particularly nice hand – clean and and manicured, but still broad and with a hint of callouses – and the time piece on his wrist catches the light, showing off its brand. Of course, it's something Swiss and ridiculously expensive.

“ _Peter_. Okay. You're going easy on me.”

“It fits, I'm just an easy-going person.” Peter graces him with a friendly smile. “So what brings you here tonight? Stressful job?”

“No, nothing like that. I'm just waiting for a friend. I'm a grad student.”

“So you're handsome _and_ smart. I like the sound of that.”

Stiles chuckles. “Ha, _no_. Smart people bypass grad school, I'm pretty sure of that. I just have a habit of making bad life choices.”

That earns him another grin. “I like the sound of that even better.”

“Sure you do.”

They're interrupted when the bartender brings Stiles a Scottish single malt and a glass of water. After thanking Peter for the treat, Stiles takes a cautionary sip and then groans in pleasure. His palate has been convinced, alright. The whiskey has a smoky, rich flavor. It's smooth and offers a subtle burn.

“Life's too short to drink bad whiskey,” Peter says, raising his own glass in an impromptu little toast. “Sometimes you need a bit of a bite.”

“Amen. I'll drink to that.”

A few moments go by in companionable silence as they enjoy their drinks. Peter's proximity helps Stiles to forget that his ex-boyfriend is around; it might have something to do with Peter's scent, which is unobtrusive and pleasant, a mix of pine and musk and another quality that's faintly familiar.

“Has anyone ever told you how nice your lips are?” Peter asks him after a while. “They're really particularly nice.” There's suddenly the light pressure of a thumb at Stiles' lips, the warm and round digit brushing away a tiny drop of whiskey. Reflexively, Stiles' lips fall open a bit. “Hm,” Peter says, heat in his eyes. “Just like I thought. Soft as silk.”

Even when Peter retracts his thumb, his gaze doesn't leave Stiles' lips. “You know, with lips like that, you could give a man ideas. I'm going to be honest, Stiles. I have a _lot_ of ideas right now.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “I'm not surprised. Something tells me you never run out of them.”

“True, true.”

“Though no doubt-” and here, Stiles sucks in a startled breath as he suddenly feels Peter's hand on his thigh, a warm and steady pressure, “-most of them are either crazy or dangerous.” Peter's hand slides upwards a few inches. “Or – or – both.”

“You already know me so well! Look at us.”

“I wouldn't say that,” Stiles mutters. “I have _no idea_ what the hell you're thinking right now.”

Peter shrugs, a fluid, elegant-looking motion. “Most of my ideas are centered around your mouth and what you can do with it.”

Usually? Talking. Blabbing. Chewing on whatever pen happens to be near. But that's not at the forefront of Stiles' mind right now.

“Because I'm imagining...” and here Peter's hand finds his own on the counter, idly stroking it, a soft, teasing touch that sends involuntary shivers down Stiles' spine, “...that you're _very_ good at using it. You're always full of energy, aren't you. Always having ten thoughts at once. But when you put your mouth to its intended use... you get single-minded. It grounds you. Helps you focus. You give it all you’ve got, and I envy the guys who were lucky enough to have those Bambi eyes stare up at them, all eager and proud, while that clever tongue works towards its reward.”

A part of Stiles' brain short-circuits at that, going offline in a wisp of smoke. He drops his gaze, feeling pleased but shy about it. “Um. Thanks for the vote of confidence, I guess.”

There's a wicked gleam in Peter's eyes. “You have no idea of the effect you’re have on others, do you? How adorable. You're almost illegally cute.”

Stiles takes another sip of his whiskey in an attempt to stall some time. He's starting to feel like a limping zebra in front of a starving lion. Worse still, he's starting to feel like a zebra that will _roll over and surrender_ , and he's pretty sure that's not even the alcohol talking (although the alcohol might explain the confusing animal metaphor).

“A part of me wants to protect that naivety,” Peter muses. “Although not the biggest part, mind you.”

Stiles ignores that (he's not going to go there; he's _not_ ) and shakes his head lightly. “I'm not naive! I'm just not usually... the belle of the ball.”

“Maybe you're going to the wrong balls. I could introduce you to some that you'd love...”

Before Stiles can say anything to _that_ , there's another presence at their side. Stiles glances over and nearly falls off his bar stool as he becomes aware of Derek's features – features that are drawn into an expression of righteous anger. The werewolf is _oozing_ hyper-masculinity. He could sell three-piece suits or race cars, looking like that.

Funnily enough, that's exactly what he does for a living.

Because that's Derek Hale: part-time model and full-time asshole.

And also Stiles' ex-boyfriend.

Nineteen days ago, Derek had come home, looked at Stiles with something close to pity, and confessed to screwing a whole lot of other people on the side. To add insult to injury, he'd then thrown in the usual, _it's not you, it's me_ and _maybe it's just time to see other people,_ and _I'd really like us to stay friends_. As far as break-ups went, Stiles couldn't give him more than two points out of ten. No effort, no creativity, and certainly no heart.

“Stiles,” Derek growls. “ _Peter._ You two know each other?”

Stiles' mouth falls open. _What the-?_

“Why, of course we know each other,” Peter says airily, with just the sort of inflection that suggests an unspoken _'in the biblical sense'._ He leans into Stiles' personal space as if he's on a military campaign, and it's his objective to invade and conquer. Peter's fingers feel like a scorching hot brand on Stiles' thigh, like he's being claimed.

Derek doesn't take the news well, at least not if ‘well’ is defined as ‘nowhere close to wolfing out’. The werewolf's eyes shimmer blue for some moments, flickering bright before bleeding out into their regular color. It's astonishing, given his usually impeccable control. And it doesn't bode well. “You're _dating_ my uncle?” Derek asks Stiles in a murderous tone.

Stiles closes his eyes briefly. Of all the people in this bar, he just _had_ to start chatting with Derek's uncle.

What are the odds?

He is so fucked.

His life is a shit show, as per usual.

“Dating might not be the right term,” Peter says. His hand slides upwards on Stiles' thigh, right into indecent territory. Stiles tries not to fidget. Bad touch. _Bad touch._ “Affair is more fitting. Or a string of earth-shattering sexual encounters, if you prefer that. There are days where we never leave the bedroom. Sometimes Stiles is too exhausted to walk and too sore to sit, the poor thing.” He pats Stiles' thigh in a reassuring gesture that does nothing at all to reassure Stiles.

“Um,” Stiles says. “Yes. That's it. Carnal pleasure. Sex marathons. Ditto.”

Derek looks as if he was just force-fed a potent load of wolfsbane. “I can't believe you would stoop that low, Stiles,” he hisses. “Peter's a psychopathic pervert. He's got _nothing_ to offer you.”

“Derek, loosen up a bit,” Peter tuts. “I'm embarrassed you're this judgmental. There's a lot of wisdom a man of my age can pass on. Especially since Stiles is just so _willing_ to absorb it all. So eager. I've poured every last ounce of my wisdom into him, and yet he's still begging for more. Isn't that wonderful? He takes it all in, or tries to at least... Always going for his limits, even if it hurts. That boy loves getting educated.”

Oh god, this conversation is like a car crash and Stiles belatedly realizes he isn't wearing his seatbelt.

At Peter's thinly veiled boast, Derek _growls_. There are hairs on his throat and hands that hadn’t been there before. Stiles can see new ones spreading across his skin; his ex-boyfriend is getting furrier by the second. “Don't talk about Stiles that way,” Derek snarls and points a clawed finger at Peter.

“Why not? He's a good boy. So well behaved; so quick to follow orders. What's not to like?”

“Peter! He's not one of your little playthings!”

“And that's where you're wrong,” Peter says and smirks obnoxiously. “He's certainly pretty enough. I treat my toys well, Derek. I even polish them every now and then and put them on display for all to see.” 

“Fuck you, Peter!”

Stiles used to be impressed by Derek's growly macho tendencies, but compared to his uncle he's no more badass than an agitated chihuahua. While Derek is practically frothing at the mouth, Peter looks unruffled and only mildly interested in their little conversation. He's taking a sip from his glass and idly scans the rest of the bar. Stiles watches the long lines of Peter's throat work as he's swallowing and curses silently. His dick is getting a bit too interested in the unfolding events. Because he likes assholes, and he likes suave arrogant assholes most of all.

And _of course._

Of course, he's getting a completely inappropriate disaster boner. 

Apparently it's his secret kink to be the filling in a Hale sandwich. For a moment it seems as if both Derek's and Peter's nostrils are widening, sucking in a scent.

Oh.

Stiles forgot about that for a moment.

If Derek is a werewolf, then Peter probably is a werewolf, too.

“Don't make that sour face, nephew. It's not my fault you've been so... lacking in certain departments,” Peter drawls after a few moments of silence. “One of us has to uphold the family honor.”

No sooner has Peter said that then he's smashed into the counter and there's a snarling, fully transformed werewolf on top of him. Derek starts to punch Peter so quickly that the movements are indistinguishable to Stiles' eyes, just a blur of lines in motion. The younger werewolf's upper hand doesn't last long, though. Peter gets a hold of Derek's arm and twists it until Derek screams in pain. In the blink of an eye, Derek's on the floor of the bar, lying on his stomach; Peter holds one of his arms at an angle that has to be agonizing, while his other hand presses into Derek's neck and holds him down, as if his nephew is an unruly puppy in need of a schooling.

The bar security is there a moment later, holding Derek back and threatening to taser him if he so much as twitches a finger again.

Before the werewolf can be marched out of the bar, Stiles grabs his sleeve. “Hey,” he says sharply. “Just for the record: You have no right whatsoever to act all pissy and possessive around me. You dumped me, remember? Whatever you think I am – your property, your fucking territory, I don't know – you're mistaken. I can do what I want. I can fuck who I want. It's a free world, you asshole.”

Derek visibly deflates. “I know, Stiles. And I'm sorry, believe me. I was wrong. It was a mistake to let you go. I want to – I want to fix it. Let me make it up to you. _Please._ ”

Stiles laughs; there's an edge of hysteria to the sound before he can clamp it down. “Hell, no. We're finished, Derek. We're through.”

The way Derek draws his eyebrows together and slumps his shoulders in defeat is almost pitiful. The werewolf stays silent as lets himself be walked outside by the security.

“The evening was much more interesting than I anticipated,” Peter says and watches his nephew leave without even bothering to hide his satisfaction.

Stiles sighs. “Agreed.”

Stepping into the open V of Stiles' legs, Peter says, “I'm pretty sure I can make the evening even more entertaining, if you'll let me.” He puts a hand on Stiles' hip and leans into Stiles' space, pressing him into the counter in a light, teasing way that suggests he could still be much, much closer. The contact is heady and seductive, and there's an obvious promise behind it.

And yes.

Stiles wants it. Wants Peter. After the events of this evening, he's pretty sure he deserves a mind-blowing one night stand. That's the least the universe can do to compensate him, right? Give him a good hard fucking. _In the literal sense._ That addendum is important.

“Come with me tonight,” Peter whispers against the shell of Stiles' ear, his voice low and rough, full of promise. There's the hot, ghosting impression of exhaled air, leaving goose bumps behind. “Derek is an amateur. I'm not. I think we'd work together beautifully.”

Stiles smiles to himself and rubs his cheek on Peter's for a moment, like an overgrown, affectionate cat. “You had me at _'hello'_.”

“I didn't say _hello_ to you.”

“That's beside the point.”

  
  
  


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_[a series of texts between Lydia and Stiles]_  
  


\---

 

If life taught Stiles anything, it was that Lydia was always right. 

And that she made both a terrific and terrifying maid of honor.

  


  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I've had something of a writer's block for a while now, so yay! I posted something.
> 
> *pats Derek's head* Sorry bro, I needed a villain and I liked the family angle. Also, Stiles is more bashful in this than I usually picture him. I hope it's not OOC – it's supposed to be due to the circumstances.
> 
> Constructive criticism is always welcome.
> 
> You can chat with me at septima-sum.tumblr.com


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